


The Record's End

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:30:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: PROMPT: shoot-root has a life-and-death injury. she's trapped with shaw and shaw can't seem to find anyway out. there are absolutely no supplies to help root's injuries. shaw just keeps saying hold on while she tries to find a way out while root just quietly keeps saying her name, but shaw ignores her. finally root uses all her strength to get shaw's attention. she asks shaw really weakly if shaw can just sit with her and by this point, shaw knows root's chances are slim and she does as root says.





	The Record's End

This is not the kind of day Sameen Shaw had in mind.

Not that she objected to running around a secret government building causing mayhem— a tried and true specialty of her's— it just wasn't on the agenda. But with Root, was there really ever a set 'To-Do' list?  _No_ , Shaw thinks with the hint of a smile, ducking around the corner and narrowly escaping a cascade of bullets. No, with Root, it was a constant on-your-toes mystery; and while she'd never admit it, Shaw kind of liked that sort of thing.

"We should keep moving, Sweetie," Root says, jarring Shaw from her thoughts as Root wraps a hand around her arm. She tugs Shaw down the hall, their heels echoing along the floor. "They've got backup on the way."

"I guess we should get some, too," Shaw replies cooly, pulling her arm away from Root with a lingering glare. She tries to maintain an air of annoyance, but with a single amused look from Root, the mood dissipates.  _God,_  Shaw hisses to herself, dialing John's number as Root covers her.  _I used to be able to hold that stare all day, and now all it takes is a smile for me to drop it?_  Rolling her eyes, she slips her phone into her pocket and turns up her earwig.

"Having a fun girls' day?" John greets humorously, and Shaw's lip tugs with a sneer.

"Unlike you and Fusco, we don't  _have_  girls' days. We work."

"Who says I'm not working?" he quips back. Shaw raises her firearm, shooting a Samaritan agent in the kneecap and watching him drop to the ground. The fire alarm blares, water matting her hair and soaking through her short sleeve tee. No, there wasn't a fire—  _not yet, anyway_ — but they needed a way to clear the building of innocent civilians. Thanks to Root's computer savvy, the alarm would not be alerting the fire department, which should give them enough time to finish the mission and escape undetected.

"Sitting in a squad car doesn't count."

"It does when it's a hundred and five out and the air conditioning in the car is broken," John grumbles. The heat is no joke; the East Coast was verging its second consecutive week of a blistering heat wave.

"He's nearly shot three guys already," Fusco mutters, voice muffled.

"Who wants to run in this weather?" John complains, and Shaw smiles. "At least you're in air conditioning."

As if fate heard his wish for Shaw and Root to share in his misery, the power cuts from the building. The heat wave had been causing power outages districts wide, and today seems to be Red Hook's lucky day.

"Not any more," Shaw responds, the air already growing warmer. Root and Shaw take the third split in the hall and rush to the large metal door separating them from the lobby, and Root swipes the stolen access card. Nothing. She swipes again. Again, nothing. Not a beep, nor an error code.

Shaw turns her back to the door, gun raised as she begins picking off the encroaching Samaritan agents. Root pushes at the door, willing it to slide, but the electric brakes remain locked. Apparently, if the power goes out, what's inside these walls is more important than the safety of the people within.

"We're sitting ducks, here," Shaw mutters to Root, voice level.  _Now's not the time for irritation, but it's sure as hell getting close._  "Figure something out."

"Unless you know how to kick your way through steel, I'd say we're locked in."

_Always cheery, even in the worst circumstances_ , Shaw thinks to herself, stealing a glance at Root as she tries one last time to push at the door. It doesn't budge. Tossing her dark curls over her shoulder, Root gives Shaw a what-can-ya-do shrug before starting back the way they came, double guns poised.

"We're going to need you boys to make a trip to 536 Columbia Street," Root says, a bead of sweat appearing at her temple. The chill of the air conditioning gives way to the inkling of outside heat seeping in, and Shaw can only hope the building is big enough to contain the majority of the cold. "And bring something... explosive."

"Columbia Street?" Fusco echoes with skepticism as Root and Shaw pick their way through the winding corridors, trying to spot any more Samaritan Agents. They can hear the footfalls and sharp orders of the agents as they scour the floor for the two. Shaw hears the nearest voices dissipate in the opposite direction, and lets her guard fall, standing just before a large network of old, industrial ventilation. "There's nothing down there but rundown warehouses. I thought you two were doing government stuff?"

"No better place to hide than in plain sight," Shaw responds, hearing John honk as tires screech on the asphalt. Fusco lets loose a string of swears, squad car revving as John makes his way to them. Shaw watches as Root scans the adjacent rooms, jiggling the handles on electronically locked doors. Three floors up isn't an impossible drop, but having access to the windows would help.

"We're gonna have to make a pit stop for the gear," John tells Shaw as she leans against the wall with her shoulder, eyes tracing over Root. She's only half-listening. "Fusco has a habit of being unprepared."

"Excuse me if I don't like carrying illegal weapons in my  _government issued_  vehicle," Fusco retorts angrily, and Shaw rolls her eyes. Her gaze scans Root, watching as she moves quietly along Shaw's side of the hall, then works her way back down. Root's eyes flicker to Shaw's, double take, then warm at catching Shaw.  A devious grin grows on Root's features as her glowing gaze strays past Shaw for a split second, mouth parting with what's clearly going to be an overt come on.

Her countenance warps.

Smile dropping, eyes growing wide and losing their play, Root starts forward, Shaw's name on her lips; but time slows, the sound never reaching Shaw's ears.

_Something's wrong. Something's very wrong_. Through the molasses in the air, Shaw begins to spin, lifting her gun as if it weighs eight tons, not sure what's put that fear in Root's eyes but knowing it can't be good. Root lunges into the air, arms outstretched, closing the space between them. Her fingers curl around Shaw's shoulders, then pull Shaw in, and time throws itself into overdrive to make up for its lapse.

A gunshot goes off just as Shaw is jerked roughly to the side. She's thrown off balance, stumbling and dropping to the ground with Root still clinging to her from behind. Shaw hits the ground with a grunt, bouncing against the hard floor. Past the fuzz in her eyes, Shaw raises her weapon and takes out the agent responsible, not bothering to avoid center mass. There's an electric screeching in Shaw's ear, and she rips out her ear wig, seeing her phone shattered on the floor.

The sound of riled agents grows, having heard the firefight, and Shaw shoves her way to her feet, yanking Root up after her. Root groans, the fall clearly not much better on her.  _Even though she landed on top of me_ , Shaw adds to herself, her shoulder and hip already aching where she crashed down. A headache throbs in the back of her skull, but she can't be bothered to pay mind to it now.

The first agent on scene spots her, and she shoots. Hits. Shoots again. Nothing.

_Shit_ , she mutters to herself, dropping the empty gun, eyes scanning for a plan.

_There._

The vents.

Hands still at Root's arm, Shaw tugs her forward, eyes set on a large grate just above floor level. Root stumbles along, holding her stomach, but Shaw doesn't slow.

"We gotta get out of here," she says, hoping it'll get Root to move a little faster.  _Even if the fall gave her a broken rib, that can be dealt with later._ Shaw's hands are warm, slicked with more sweat than she remembers having, but it's getting ever hotter, and she can only imagine how sickening it'll be in the vents.  _I guess a sauna is better than a casket, huh?_ she asks herself with dark humor, yanking at the vent cover. The sharp metal digs at her fingertips, but ultimately gives, and she ducks Root's head down, pushing her into the vent and slipping in just as a slew of agents spot them. Tugging the cover back into place, sparks fly against the vent, metal scraping metal. Root is slumped against the side of the vent, eyes shut. Shaw feels ready to close her eyes too, the headache demanding attention.

_We have to keep moving._

"Come on," Shaw orders, gesturing forward as Root's eyes pull open. She looks as if she's about to speak; instead, she begins to crawl. In the darkness of the vents, Shaw can smell the heavy scent of metal, enough to be nauseating.  _And what's up with the wetness?_  She wonders, disgust crossing her face as her hands slip into liquid.  _Condensation from the cold air?_

She thinks about the last time the vents had been cleaned— if ever— and pushes any thoughts of what the liquid could be far from her mind. The sound of bullets striking metal echo around her, small indentations poking into the ducts. The industrial metal encasing them is thick, bullet proof even, and seems to be quite the silver lining.

The only silver lining.

The ducts are at least ten degrees hotter than the hallway was, the metal sucking up the heat like a vacuum. Sweat glides down Shaw's forehead and neck, hair clinging to her no longer due to the sprinklers.

_We just have to keep moving. Just a little more—_

"Get down!" a muffled voice shouts from outside the ducts. Before Shaw has the chance to register what it could possibly mean, a series of grenades blast beneath them, shaking the framework of the ventilation structure and the aged walls. A groan like the ancient gods waking from a millennium's slumber is coupled with a lurch, and Shaw is immediately thrown back. Her back connects with the top of the duct as everything gives way.

They land with a crash, smoke filtering through cracks in piled rubble and twisted metal. The duct no more than three feet behind Shaw is entirely caved in, sealing them off from the way they came. The dust settles, silence canvassing them like a stifling blanket.

"Think that got them?" an agent asks.

"If that didn't kill them," another replies, "then nothing will."

"Let's move," a third says, and footsteps clatter away, leaving Root and Shaw alone.

Shaw waits, the mud in her head sloshing between her ears as her bleary eyes focus on her surroundings. Just up ahead, the industrial-sized duct gives way to a central unit large enough to move about in without too much slouching. She shimmies toward it, Root slumped on her side just before the opening.

She doesn't move. Dark hair spilling over her face and shoulders, one arm dangling over the edge of the duct. Shaw holds her breath, waiting, hoping _—_

She sees it.

A shaky breath in. A sputtering breath out.

Tension Shaw hadn't noticed building in her shoulders is released as she shakes Root's shoulder, tapping at her hand and back.

"Come on," Shaw says, voice scratchy from the dust coating the air with a fine mist. "We gotta find a way out of here."

"Shaw..." Root starts, voice soft and slow.  _Probably dizzy from the fall,_ Shaw thinks, pushing past Root and into the central unit. She can crouch here without too much difficulty, and uses the space to stretch out her legs.

It hits her again. That smell.

That overwhelming stench of metal, sharp and biting, burning her nose and scorching its way down the back of her throat. It's everywhere _—_  Shaw can almost swear she's wearing it. But there's something off about it.

_It's not just metal. No, it's... it's metallic._  And it is, in fact, all over her. Running her hands down the front of her shirt, dark smears of half-dried blood leave her fingers.  _I don't feel any pain_ , she thinks to herself.  _Well, besides the headache and the hip_. She feels the back of her head, then pats herself down, waiting for a scream of pain to well beneath her fingertips, alerting her to whatever hit she took.

There's nothing.

"Shaw..." Root tries again, and Shaw turns her gaze to Root. Root, still unmoving. Hair still over her face, arm still dangling over the edge of the duct. In the relatively minimal light provided in the duct, Shaw can see something dark against Root's pale arm. Something that looks a lot like the blood on her own hands.

Coming back to Root, Shaw grabs Root's wrist, and the blood running down slides between Shaw's fingers. That metallic smell is stronger now— overpowering— and Shaw clenches her teeth.  _This isn't happening,_  she thinks, trying to flip Root over.  _This is not happening right now._

"A little help," Shaw grunts, tugging at Root from the awkward angle. Root draws her arms into her chest slowly, then shakily pushes herself into a crawling stance, eyes on Shaw. Root tries for a lopsided grin, but falls short, forced spark in her eyes going out ever so slightly. But Shaw doesn't notice; isn't looking at her face.

No, Shaw's too distracted by the blood. The blood Root's completely covered in.

 

**___\ If Your Number's Up /___**

 

The last of Root's ammunition is lodged in the three-inch thick metal of the ducts. Their small indentations are a constant reminder of how trapped they are, and of how nothing can save them now.

_Like hell that's true._

Shaw slams her fists into the unit for the umpteenth time, knuckles past the point of bruising as the skin splits against metal. She can't stop now. She needs to get Root out of here.

"Sam," Root says, and Shaw closes her eyes at the sound, simultaneously wanting to block it out and never stop hearing it. "Come on, just come here."

"Hold on," Shaw replies, as she had been doing for... how long now?  _Seconds, minutes, hours?_ She can't tell.  _It feels like an eternity in this sweltering hell hole, but with no phones and no windows, whose really to say?_

_Hold on._ It has two meanings, but she's unsure which she's using.

_Hold on, I'll be right there?_

She wants to be, but escaping is the number one priority. Without any medical supplies to help, Root is slowly bleeding out with nothing between her and death save for Shaw's t-shirt. Even without the shirt, Shaw's tank top is still stiflingly hot, and may have to make due for a second makeshift bandage. She doesn't want to think about how much blood has already seeped through the shirt.

_Hold on, keep fighting?_

Shaw knows Root is tough, she can handle more than most, but there's only so much holding on that is physically possible. Shaw doesn't want Root to reach that threshold— doesn't want to have to cross the line into improbable or even impossible. She just needs Root to hold on long enough to escape. To get help.  _Something._

"Shaw."

Shaw ignores her.

"Shaw."

She ignores her again. They'd already had this fight, Shaw needing to fix Root's wound but being unable to. Root telling her it was okay.  _It wasn't okay._

_How could I not see it?_  Shaw hisses, slamming her palms against the metal with a guttural yell.  _Root jumping forward, the two of us falling to the ground. The way she kept herself hunched over. Everything. How did I not see it?_

Shaw begins kicking at the duct with her boot, hands still slamming as she yells. Something in her begins to snap, an animalistic need for escape seizing her. She doesn't care if the Samaritan agents hear. At this point, she'd be glad for their return. With no way out of this duct from the inside, at least their next attempt at catching Root and herself would involve getting them out of the vent. They could figure something out from there.

Kicking.

Punching.

Yelling.

Praying.

"Shaw...?"

Ignoring.

Kicking.

Yelling.

Punch—

"Sameen," Root says, voice sharp as it cuts through the ruckus of Shaw's fists and Shaw's mind. Root sucks in a breath, the force of those two syllables knocking the wind from her. It's taking all of her strength to get Shaw's attention. "Please."

It isn't the 'Sameen' that finally snaps Shaw into reality. Not the sharp, feisty bark of someone with a lot of fight in them. It's the 'Please.' The soft, crackling whisper like an old record on it's last revolution. Only one groove left before the needle falls off the track.

Root's fading from a symphony to white noise, and Shaw knows ignoring that factor won't make it go away, it'll only make her miss what's left of the swan song.

Shaw doesn't say anything at first. Doesn't know how. In the few rays of muddied light that filter through the vent, Shaw sees Root's pained smile, fingers tapping weakly at the space beside her.

"Please," she continues, "just sit. Just sit."

Shaw complies.

She moves slowly, mechanics of her joints clogged with rust that she painstakingly breaks. She crawls to the space next to Root, trying to ignore the sweltering heat that only grows around them. She wishes it were colder, if anything, it would at least help with the bleeding.

_The bleeding I can't stop._

_The bleeding that needs to stop._

The thought's enough to make Shaw want to throw her body at the duct all over again, but Root seems to sense it. She places two delicate fingers over Shaw's wrist, as if that's enough to stop her.

It is.

"God," Shaw mutters, tugging her hand away from Root. "You're ice cold."

The agitation is instinctual. The fear that accompanies it is not.

_She shouldn't be this cold_ , Shaw tells herself, knowing that the blood loss is getting  _worse, worse worse—_

_Stop. Breathe. Think._

Shaw looks at Root; her pale face beaded with sweat, dark brown eyes studying her while trying to hide the pain she's in. Shaw's stomach burns with hot coals, heart swearing she'll hunt down the Samaritan agents responsible for this, even if it's the last thing she ever does.

Shaw sighs.

"Come here," she says, fight gone, but doesn't make Root move. Instead, Shaw props Root's back up gingerly, slipping between Root and the duct before placing Root's head against her shoulder. Shaw rubs her hands along Root's icy arms, doing what little she can to warm her.

"My hero," Root coos, the crack in her voice giving away how much pain she's truly in.  _I hate seeing her like this._

Shaw feels herself alive with a million ants crawling along her skin, finding it impossible to remain still. She keeps her hands moving, sliding between warming Root's arms and toying with Root's brown curls.

"When I get out of here," Shaw starts, voice low at Root's ear, "I'm going out for some hard alcohol."

Root gives a light chuckle.

"You coming with?" Shaw continues, still toying with Root's hair.  _She needs to keep talking,_  Shaw thinks to herself.  _She needs to keep feeling _—_  keep being._

"Is this you asking me on a date?" Root teases dotingly, though there's an underlying excitement that accompanies Root's words.

"I'm asking you out for  _drinks_ ," Shaw corrects, flustered. Her cheeks warm, and she's glad to be out of Root's line of sight.

" _Sounds_  like a date," Root muses, and Shaw tugs at her hair playfully. Root gives a shudder, and Shaw returns to rubbing her arms.

"We're gonna get out of here," Shaw says, the words like a promise on her lips. "John'll be here. He'll find us."

"I know," Root replies, but she doesn't quite believe it, and neither does Shaw. They sit in silence a moment.

"Shaw..." Root starts, beginning to slur her words ever so slightly. "In case he doesn't—"

"He will," Shaw reaffirms. She doesn't want to hear the words.  _In case he doesn't make it in time._  "He will."

Another eternity of silence passes. It's painful, and for a second, Shaw isn't sure if Root's still—

Root's head grows heavy on Shaw's shoulder, head lolling until her forehead rests at Shaw's collar.

"Root, Root, hey," Shaw says, forcing back the jolt of panic that shoots down her spine as she jostles Root. "Come on, you have to stay awake."

"Hard to," Root replies, voice groggy with fatigue. "What, with feeling so safe in your arms."

Shaw rolls her eyes, a genuine smile breaking free.

"You have the absolute worst timing, you know that right?"

"I know," Root replies, laughter in her voice. "But you gotta love me for it." Root tenses at the words, as if they've slipped from her like a secret she never wanted to reveal. "I mean—"

"You're right," Shaw says evenly. "If we didn't like you, we wouldn't have kept you around this long."

Root relaxes, saved. Secret kept.

_But why should she keep it?_

The thought strikes Shaw like softball to the gut.  _Here we are, cooking alive and bleeding out, and we're just going to skirt around everything on our minds?_ Root's breath is shallow against Shaw's collar; Shaw's fingers stop tracing along Root's arms. On any other occasion, Shaw would be more than happy to toe the line for the rest of eternity, but right now, she has the urge to jump directly into the deep end.

Shaw nudges Root again, needing to keep her awake. Awake to live, awake to hear this.

"It might just be this heat, but you know what?" Shaw asks Root, gaining a half-heartedly curious grunt in response. "I change my mind, about earlier."

"Hm?" It's barely audible, but enough for Shaw to know Root is still here. Still listening.  _Still being._

"I'm not asking you out for drinks." She waits for Root to squirm, to demand why the change of heart, perhaps attempt to fluster Shaw over the decision. None of these happen, so Shaw just pushes along, trying to get the words to stop sticking on her tongue. Her heartbeat is heavy and quick, and she knows that with Root's ear against her chest, she's bound to be hearing it.

"I'm not asking you out for drinks," Shaw starts again, licking her parched lips. "Let's do something else. Dinner or something."  _Or something?_ She gives herself a mental kick, but decides not to dwell on it. "Let's talk about things. Like your untimely flirting." A beat. A roll of the jaw. A jump of the heart. "And loving you for it."

Shaw isn't sure what to expect. An unparalleled elation to course through Root's bloodstream, a double take at the offer, a surprised hitch in her breath? Come to think of it, Shaw doesn't feel any breath at all.

"Root, did you hear me? Root...?"

 

**___\ We'll Find You /___**

 

_Bang!_

The steel door screeches as it's torn from its hinges, creating a splintered hole just big enough to fit a person. Uncovering his ears, John stands, brushing a few stray flecks of plaster from his suit jacket. Behind him, Fusco still remains hunched over, eyes flickering back and forth as if worried to be caught.

"Let’s go, Lionel," John says, stepping through the large hole, gun at the ready. The floors are wet, though the sprinklers have all stopped. A single burst pipe spews water down the hall.  _All seems quiet._  "We don't have all day."

Fusco begrudgingly follows, pulling his gun from his holster and holding it at his side.

"If I get fired for this, I'm comin' after you first," Fusco mutters, though he knows that despite all odds, things tend to work out.  _Just enough to get by, at least._

"Shaw?" John calls into the vacant hall, starting toward the burst water pipe. "Root?"

"Nothing like letting the enemy know we're here," Fusco says, jumping at the sound of something hitting the floor. John rolls his eyes.

"Afraid we can't handle it?"

"If those two couldn't do it alone, what makes you think we can?"

"We're not alone," John counters. He turns the corner, stepping through the deep puddle of water from the gushing pipe. "We just have to find the rest of our group first."

"You make it sound so easy," Fusco cracks.

Looking to his left, John takes in a rubble pile surrounding a gaping hole in the wall, a smatter of blood on the bricks. Peering out, he sees the ground three stories below, vacant save for dying grass and broken pieces of glass.

"Looks like the welcoming party didn't wait up," John tells Fusco, stowing away his weapon and taking a curious look around. The damage is new— anyone could tell that— and odds are if police aren't on there way, someone a little more powerful will be soon.

"Think Shaw and Cocoa Puffs took off too?"

John's eyes make another sweep, and he spots broken glass and blood down the left hall.

Without answering Fusco, he starts that way, the glass shards surrounding Shaw's smashed phone. The blood carries further on, toward a space in the wall that's collapsed on itself like a smushed birthday cake.  _Maybe a vent? Maybe a pipe?_

Large chunks of brick and cement pile around a large circulation unit, clamping the sides shut like a hard candy. Above, dust and debris slide like rain over them with each gust of wind, the entire corner of the building open wide.

John tugs at his collar, growing agitated.  _It's hot as Hell,_  he mutters to himself, though his face remains neutral as he approaches the phone.  _If they brought us all the way out here for nothing, I swear I'll—_

_What is that?_

Small divots in the duct, seven to be exact. John approaches, lanky fingers outstretched as he skims them.  _Big enough for what?_  he asks himself, eyeing Fusco curiously.  _Big enough for..._

"Bullets," John says, heart skipping a beat. "From the inside."

_How bad did things get that they'd risk shooting at the metal?_ John wonders, coming to the right side of the rubble, Fusco at his heels.  _What, with the potential ricochet of the bullets? Not to mention it had to be deafening._

_But in this heat, trapped in a personal-sized oven, it's probably the least of their concerns._

"Move it," John grunts, pulling at a large chunk of cement and rebar. John's palms burn against the roughness, fingernails scraping and sweat pouring down his cheeks. Teeth clenched. Stomach tight. Slowly, he and Fusco shimmy it just enough out of the way to get to the next chunk. And the next. And the next.

John tosses his jacket to the floor, though it doesn't keep his already sweat slicked shirt from tugging against his skin. At his side, Fusco's tight curls are matted to his head, and he wipes at his eyes. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the last, large mass is moved away just enough to let the smaller debris fall through the hole. It hits the metal vent with echoing thunks.

Taking out his NYPD flashlight, John starts into the vent, heat stifling, and he sucks in a strenuous breath. Part of him hopes they're in here— he needs to find them. Part of him prays they're not.  _In this heat, for this long?_  Already, the air from outside the vent feels like a cool breeze against John's skin.

Specs of brick dig into his knees and palms as he crawls, flashlight canvasing a wide opening in the vent where he originally saw the bullet holes. The beam scans quickly across two dark mops of hair, then back.

_Shaw._

Her head is bowed, face obscured by Root's matted hair.

_Root._

Face turned in towards Shaw, laying across Shaw's chest and lap. Shaw's arms held snuggly around her waist.

The sight leaves John with a humorous smirk. _Enjoying their time alone, huh?_  he thinks with a silent chuckle. He clears his throat.

"Sorry to interrupt, but it's a little hot in here to be sitting like that, don't you think?" he teases, slipping into the opening in the duct. He expects Root and Shaw to jump. Root's cheeky grin and Shaw's burning cheeks at being caught in such a moment. He expects Shaw to yell the first obscenity that comes to mind, while Root makes matters even worse for Shaw's ego. He's ready for it, a new, sharp-witted response at the ready.

What he doesn't expect is for Shaw to slowly lift her head, eyes barely held open. Dried blood coating her cheeks with clean streaks where sweat must have cleared it away. He doesn't expect Shaw's slow blink, met with a hollow stare. Vacant eyes. Empty countenance.

John had known Shaw a long time, and for how emotionless she always claimed to be, he'd never seen her face so devoid of anything as it is right now. Completely blank. Absolutely closed. And just like that, his next sarcastic quip dies on his tongue.

"She stopped responding."

Shaw's voice is as ungiving as her features, words quiet, simple, matter of fact. No feeling. Autopilot.

"How long ago?" John asks, wanting to demand the answer but not being able to muster the urgency past the shock.

"Do I  _look_  like I have a stopwatch?" Shaw spits, old anger reigniting, and with it, a sharp splash of pain canvases her eyes.

"Get us an ambulance, Lionel!" John shouts toward the exit. "Get it here ten minutes ago!"

John slides his way to the two, immediately lifting Root's face toward him, patting at her cheeks. He presses his fingers into her wrist, and when there's no pulse, he digs in further. He can almost swear there's something, but past his own heart pounding in his temples, he can't be sure.

"Help me move her," John instructs, trying to peel Shaw's hands away. He wants to know what happened, why Root is like this, but knows time is of the essence. Shaw keeps her arms firmly planted where they are, and John tugs again.

"We move her, she might die," Shaw says, seeming to hold a little tighter.

"We don't move her, she dies anyway."

Shaw doesn't budge. Her eyes are hard on John's, jaw set, but he can see that just behind the steely surface, she's close to breaking.

"You gotta trust me," John continues, a plea in his voice. Asking Shaw to let him help. Begging.

Shaw nods.

"Keep a hand on her here," Shaw instructs, hand pressed against Root's waist. John complies, feeling the blood seep through cloth and onto his fingers. Scooping Root up as best he can in the small space, he works back the way he came, trying his best to ignore how cold Root is but failing. She's pale in the darkness, and entering the light doesn't make it any better.

"What the hell happened to her?" Fusco demands, cell at his ear and eyes wide.

"Focus on getting an ambulance," John barks. "And when they get here, take it from them."

"What do you mean ‘take it from them’?"

"Ask 'em nicely, hold 'em at gunpoint— I don't  _care_. Just clear it for us."

Fusco looks as if he's about to spit something back, but with one look at Shaw's ragged state, he shuts his mouth. Nods. Then, snapping into the phone, he starts toward the door to meet the ambulance.

John truly sees Shaw for the first time. Her clothes are smeared with blood and grime, face matching, and her hair is plastered against her back. Her eyes are haunted, seeming unable to leave Root's face as John holds her in his arms. He wants to comfort Shaw in some way, but isn't sure how.

Something clicks behind Shaw's eyes, and it seems like she might not need the comfort anyway.

"Follow me," Shaw orders, not waiting to make sure John can keep up with her near dash down the hall. She pushes her way through ajar double doors to rows of water-drenched cubicles. Bullet holes and upturned chairs are all that remain of their previous firefight.

_There's got to be something,_  she thinks, scouring the desks, picking them apart with her eyes.

_There. That one._

Throwing herself into the cubicle, Shaw eyes the Type 1 Diabetes Awareness pamphlet greedily, hands yanking open drawers and scrambling through the contents of her—  _desk tag says Nancy_ — Nancy's office. Her purse is tucked under the seat, and Shaw grabs it, tearing it open. And sure enough, a pack of unused needles in a clear case. Taking it with her, she continues between the rows of desks, knowing this next piece is going to be harder to find.

_Come on, come on, come on,_  Shaw thinks, mind on overdrive. In a way, this hunt is keeping her mind away from something she'd rather go the rest of her life not admitting.  _That it's too late for Root. That she's gone. She can't be gone,_ Shaw tells herself, shoving the intrusive bubble of dread away as her eyes land on a lint roller positioned at the back of an immaculate desk. She dives in.  _This can't be how things end._

Tearing open the cabinets, she finds what she's looking for three down. A portable lint vacuum.  _Thank you, neat freaks,_  she says with a quiet sigh of relief, something like hope slithering its way down her spine.

She starts back toward the double doors just as John makes his way in, eyes searching for Shaw. She rips open the case of syringes, popping off a plunger and sticking the thin plastic tubing of the lint vacuum over the end of the syringe. With her teeth, she tears the tubing away from the vacuum, tossing it to the ground as she pops a plunger off a second needle.  _This could work, this might just work._

"You're O negative, right?" Shaw asks, though she jabs John in the arm with the syringe before receiving an answer. She knows she's right.

John grunts, arms tensing as he bites down on his bottom lip.

"Could have used a little warning," John hisses as his blood begins surging up the tubing.  _A quarter way, half way, three quarters..._

As soon as it begins spilling over, Shaw pushes the second syringe into place, the suction creating a syphon that spits the blood out the secondary needle. Gently, she inserts it into Root's forearm.

"It's not much," Shaw says, eyeing Root as if expecting an instant cure. "But it's all we've got."

The wail of an ambulance siren cuts through the air; Shaw and John share a look. Without a word, the two dart for the exit. Shaw's shaky, fingers unable to hold still, and the world is beginning to shift in Shaw's vision. She's suddenly aware of how dry her throat is, and how heavy her limbs are, and the pressure building behind her eyes.  _Keep pushing_ , Shaw tells herself, struggling to clear her head.

Through the hole in the wall, down the stairs, and out the back door. Fusco is arguing with the ambulance drivers, arms flailing about adamantly. They're resilient, not willing to give up their vehicle.

Shaw's lip curls into a sneer as she pulls John's gun from his waistline, firing two shots straight up before aiming the weapon between the first EMT's eyes. His brows raise in alarm, pupils dilating as he puts up his hands.

"What— what do you— you want from u— from us?" he stammers. Shaw holds out a single, quaking hand.

"The keys."

Spasmodically, he unlatches the keys from his waistband, tossing them to her. She keeps the gun exactly where it is. She could shoot him right now—  _shoot them both_ — and she wouldn't feel anything. It wouldn't even be an inconvenience, and with the way the day's been, convenient would be nice.  _But that's not how this works, no matter how complicated two hospital workers calling in the robbery is._

She jerks her head to the right.

"Get out of here."

They do.

She watches them round the corner in a flash, then tosses the keys over to Fusco and yanks open the ambulance doors. John steps in, laying Root on the gurney as Shaw pulls herself into the back. Fusco pulls into drive, and they're off.

Rummaging through the supplies, Shaw can't keep her gaze from flickering to Root, looking for signs of life. She doesn't want to admit that the signs don't seem in her favor. She can't tell if Root's breathing, but has to believe that she is. Shaw could feel it, light as it was, in the vent. She didn't want to move— to lose the certainty that Root was still here— but it's a risk she has to take.  _It's a risk worth taking._

Finding the blood in a chilled compartment, she strings it onto a collapsable IV line, running the tubing down the pole and sticking the IV into Root's other arm. She watches the blood slide past Root’s marble skin, and only after a minute of staring does she remove the makeshift IV from John's arm. Grabbing two packs of gauze, she hands one to John, bandaging Root's arm with the other, then begins taping the fresh bandaging to Root's waist. Shaw's shirt drops to the ambulance floor with a wet plop, and she ignores how horribly it wreaks of blood.

"Keep pressure on that," Shaw instructs John, who returns his hand to Root's side, holding the bandage tight. Shaw snags a heart monitor from the corner, stationing it next to the IV and locking the wheels. She places the sensor over Root's frigid finger, then flips the switch. Waits for it to boot up. Waits for it to tell Shaw Root's alive. Waits for it to tell Shaw she's not.

"Come on," Shaw mutters to Root, taking a seat at the bench to Root's side and leaning over the gurney. She places one hand at Root's cheek, holding Root's hand with the other. She can only imagine how she looks, John watching her, hearing everything, but she doesn't have the luxury of modesty right now.  _Now isn't about him, or me, or the world. Now is about her._

"You can do it," Shaw continues, face close to Root's, eyes soaking in every detail. She sends a silent prayer to whoever's listening. "We've got a dinner to go to, right?" It seems like a stupid thing to say, of all the words to possibly leave her mouth, but Shaw can't think of anything better than that assurance. That promise. That moment to hold onto, at least for a little longer.

The monitor makes a low beep, finally heating up.

Then nothing.

Then the faintest beep.

Another. A third.

Slow, barely spaced evenly, and soft enough to be no more than a small bump on the monitor's screen. But it's a heartbeat.  _Root's heartbeat._

_She's here. She's alive._

"She made it," John says, voice a disbelieving whisper. "I mean, barely, but..."

"It's enough," Shaw finishes, eyes not leaving Root's face. Fingers not leaving Root's hand.  _It's more than enough._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for the prompt!! You sent this in forever ago, and it’s one of the prompts that I’ve never really stopped thinking about, and always wanted to get back to. I absolutely loved it, so thank you so much for sending it to me!
> 
> In my old notes for this, I actually had it written to stop at the point where John sees Root and Shaw huddled together, Shaw looking up, and John’s stomach dropping. I’m not sure if the ambiguity would have been better or not, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave it in that limbo. I just wanted Root safe, haha.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I really hope that you liked this!


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